


A Man of Easy Virtues

by Arvari



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Attempt at Humor, Jaskier Can't Keep His Pants Up (Quite Literally), Jaskier Is a Horny Eighteen-Year-Old, Jaskier's Fashion Revolution, M/M, Witchersexual Jaskier | Dandelion, in chapters 2&3 he's just horny, jaskier is a slut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-09
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-15 03:33:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29307342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arvari/pseuds/Arvari
Summary: “More skin. Right fucking now.”“I actually don’t think,” Jaskier murmurs between the kisses, “that it will be possible to… Oh, yes.”The hands slip lower and try to get into Jaskier’s pants. They don’t succeed. The man – the Witcher, for fuck’s sake – growls.Which is fair, Jaskier assumes, because while the young student’s fingers are roaming freely over the scarred torso and firm buttocks, Jaskier is still fully clothed. And it is going to take forever before he’s naked.“Drowner’s shrunken ball sack,” the Witcher swears, tugging at one of the points holding Jaskier’s clothes together. “I’d sooner get into a noonwraith’s rotting cunt than your asshole!”***Just another ‘I’m so sorry but I couldn’t resist’ fics I wrote instead of, you know, doing the important things I should be doing.This time it’s based on likecastle‘stumblr postabout the kind of pants Jaskier should be wearing (and isn’t wearing, obviously) in the show and all the fanfics.Also, there's now a part two, and therewillbe a part three.
Relationships: Aiden/Lambert (The Witcher), Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion/Lambert
Comments: 11
Kudos: 188





	1. A Man of Easy Virtues

“You don’t understand,” Jaskier sighs and looks down at the tiny, fat tailor in front of him. “I just need a pair of pants that stays up without a hundred tiny ribbons.”

“They aren’t ribbons, young man,” the tailor says. “They are actually called–”

“I don’t care what they’re called. I don’t want them anywhere near me.”

“How would your pants stay up, then?” the tailor frowns.

“I don’t know. You’re the expert!”

The tailor sighs and lifts his hands to fix Jaskier’s partially unbuttoned doublet.

“Young man. How old are you?”

“Eighteen,” Jaskier mutters.

“Eighteen,” the man repeats. “Are you aware, young man, that what you’re asking for is _very_ inappropriate?”

“But very practical. Do you have any idea how difficult it is to get into _appropriate_ clothes when you’re in a hurry?”

“There are things you cannot hurry up, young man. This is one of them.”

“Have you ever tried telling that to an angry cuckold?”

“Excuse me?”

“Nothing,” Jaskier bites his lower lip. “Could you at least _consider–_ ”

“No.”

“I will pay you double–”

“Still no. There,” the man smiles, straightening Jaskier’s collar. “Much better now. Your chemise is meant to be _hidden_. You wouldn’t want people to think that you are a man of easy virtues, would you?”

“Oh, no,” Jaskier mutters. “That would be horrible…”

“Fuck, yes,” Jaskier moans as a pair of eager hands slip into his doublet. “Please.”

“Mhmh,” his lover’s deep voice answers, impatiently tugging at Jaskier’s chemise. “More skin. Right fucking now.”

“I actually don’t think,” Jaskier murmurs between the kisses, “that it will be possible to… Oh, _yes_.”

The hands slip lower and try to get into Jaskier’s pants. They don’t succeed. The man – the _Witcher_ , for fuck’s sake – growls.

Which is fair, Jaskier assumes, because while the young student’s fingers are roaming freely over the scarred torso and firm buttocks, Jaskier is still fully clothed. And it is going to take _forever_ before he’s naked.

“Drowner’s shrunken ball sack,” the Witcher swears, tugging at one of the points holding Jaskier’s clothes together. “I’d sooner get into a noonwraith’s rotting cunt than your asshole!”

“Yeah, it’s a little complicated, but if you let go for a little while–”

“Oh, fuck off,” the man grunts and before Jaskier even blinks, there’s a long knife in the man’s hand. And before Jaskier manages to open his mouth to protest, the man makes short work of all the points and unceremoniously throws Jaskier onto the bed, grinning.

“Well, fuck me,” Jaskier whispers, feeling his blood rush straight to his crotch (well, at least the tiny amount of blood that wasn’t there already).

“That’s the plan,” the man nods, cutting Jaskier’s chemise open. “The name’s Lambert, in case you forgot. Because I expect you to scream it until your voice is fucking _raw_.”

“Yes, sir,” Jaskier purrs.

The Witcher smiles.

“Good boy.”

“Melitele’s tits!” Jaskier swears, staring at his pants in disbelief.

Lambert lifts his head from the pillow and raises an eyebrow.

“Problem?” he asks.

“There is, actually. You completely _ruined_ them!” Jaskier growls and throws his currently useless pants at him. “How the fuck am I supposed to get back home?”

“Oh, come on. I was careful not to cut anything but those motherfucking tiny ribbons. It’s not the end of the world. What do you need them for, anyway? I mean apart from driving potential lovers insane with lust.”

“Well, for nothing important. Just holding the fucking thing up,” Jaskier sighs and puts on his doublet, which is his only piece of clothing that’s intact. He’s slowly coming to terms with walking home with his ass bare. Again. Third time this week.

“You have got to be fucking kidding me,” Lambert frowns. “Shit. Sorry, I guess. Would you like my spare pair?”

“Does it have the points, or did you cut them off when you urgently needed to take a shit?” Jaskier smirks.

“I honestly don’t know what the fuck are you even talking about.” Lambert gets up and after a few seconds of rummaging through his bag he pulls out a pair of worn-out leather pants and throws them to Jaskier. “Here. Take them. Guess what. They stay up on their own.”

“They… do?” Jaskier whispers, his eyes going comically wide.

“Honey, when werewolves attack your camp while your Cat Witcher boyfriend is balls-deep in your ass, you don’t have time to tie some fucking ribbons.”

“Cat Witcher…” Jaskier blinks.

As if on cue, the room’s door open and a lean, long-haired blond man rushes in, slams the door closed behind him and starts dragging a large chest in front of it.

“Oh, you’re done. Good,” he says to Lambert. “We need to leave. Now.”

“Aiden, I swear by Vesemir’s flaccid cock…” Lambert groans. “What did I ask you – no, _beg_ you not to do tonight?!”

“I swear I didn’t cheat this time!” the man says, leaning with his full weight against the chest just as someone starts to bang on the door. “It’s not my fault I’m so fucking good at gwent, is it?”

“Good at gwent my ass. I could beat you drunk if you didn’t have another whole pack stuffed into your sleeves.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Lambert. It’s not a whole pack. Just like… twenty cards or something, usually.” The man grins at Jaskier. The doorknob rattles. “Hey, Lambert’s fuck of the day. I’d suggest you start getting dressed.”

“Just how many did you manage to piss off this time?” Lambert asks, already pulling his shirt over his head.

“Not many. I could deal with them in a matter of seconds, but you always say your brother doesn’t like it when Witchers murder innocent citizens.”

“You mean my brother the fucking Butcher of Blaviken?” Lambert laughs.

Jaskier looks up from fastening his (well, Lambert’s) pants and gapes at the two Witchers.

“Your brother,” he whispers. “Your brother is _Geralt of–_ ”

“Not now,” Lambert says. “We’re in a bit of a hurry. Tell me, Jaskier, have you ever jumped out of a window before?”

“Four times just this week. Mostly to escape jealous husbands. A jealous wife, in one case.”

“Good,” Aiden nods, letting go of the chest supporting the door and grabbing his bag. “Let’s jump.”

The tiny, fat tailor is staring at the pair of worn-out black leather pants laid out in front of him with polite disgust.

“Not possible,” he says for the fifth time.

“Let’s be absolutely clear here,” Jaskier smiles and his voice holds just a hint of a promise of some _very unpleasant things_ that could hypothetically happen to the tiny man. “Do you know my name?”

“No, young man, and I wouldn’t care even if you were–”

“Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove,” Jaskier says calmly.

“Oh,” the man replies and he suddenly seems even smaller than before.

“I am willing to pay you twice your usual fee–”

“Sir, what you’re requiring is outrageous–”

“Three times.”

“I couldn’t possibly sully the name of my shop with such an immodest–”

“Four times your usual fee, and an opportunity to start a fashion revolution.”

The man closes his eyes and nods slowly.

“Four times my usual fee. You can keep the revolution. It’s not as if you can find another man willing to wear something so scandalous…”

In a month, almost every young man in Oxenfurt (and several young women) wears the same model of pants Jaskier does. It’s much more comfortable, and also much easier to get into if you happen to get caught naked in a bed you shouldn’t be in, making it an instant hit among the students.

When Jaskier jumps, completely dressed, out of yet another window, this time running from a father whose two sons he just fucked into the bed, he thinks that he definitely has to thank Lambert and Aiden properly the next time he sees them.

Or any other Witcher he meets until then.

They basically saved his life, didn’t they?


	2. A Search for the Perfect Pants

When Jaskier set out on his journey through the Continent, he didn’t really have a plan. He wanted to sing, become a famous bard and have sex without having to run away from angry spouses.

Oh, and perhaps find a few Witchers to… help improve the design of his pants. The one he stole from Lambert was good, great, even, but it had some flaws. Surely there were other Witchers who managed to eliminate those, right?

A few months later, the only goal Jaskier has managed to fulfill is the singing. He hasn’t become a famous bard (more like… infamous bard), he hasn’t met a single Witcher and he is currently kind of on a run from a bunch of young men whose sister he’s managed to impregnate. (Or, well, _allegedly_ impregnate. He’s pretty sure the child can’t be his, but whatever.)

And then he meets a Witcher. _The_ Witcher. The one and only _Geralt of Rivia_.

Who, of course, just _has to_ have the most gorgeous, perfectly round ass ever known to man, clad in a pair of leather pants that leaves nothing to imagination. There must be some kind of dark magic involved to keep them from tearing, Jaskier’s sure of it.

The moment Jaskier sees that ass, he knows he will never desire another. (That’s a lie, of course, but he will never desire another _as much as Geralt_.)

When Geralt tries so hard to save Jaskier from the elves that capture them, the bard’s heart is gone as well. How could he ever leave this handsome, muscular, caring and _kind_ man?

The only problem is that no matter how hard he tries, he just can’t get into the mighty White Wolf’s tight pants. He flirts, he flatters, he flutters his eyelashes… And Geralt only hmmms and asks if there’s something in Jaskier’s eye. It’s hopeless, utterly hopeless.

They travel together for most of the year, splitting when the winter is near – Jaskier goes back to Oxenfurt and Geralt travels to Kaer Morhen to spend the winter with the rest of the Wolf Witchers.

But only a day after they parted ways, Jaskier meets another Wolf – big, even bigger than Geralt. Strong. Muscular. Surprisingly gentle and kind in bed. And so, so gorgeous.

“Are you telling me you really don’t mind the scars?” he mutters when Jaskier kisses the horribly scarred side of his face.

“Mind them?” Jaskier murmurs. “I think they are extremely hot. Now shut up and fuck me harder.”

The Witcher chuckles.

“It will be my pleasure.”

“Oh, and by the way, when we’re done, would you mind if I took a look at your pants?”

“My… pants?”

“It’s for science.”

The Witcher laughs.

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re kind of weird, Jaskier?”

“Well, yes. But they also tell me I’m lucky that I’m so cute.”

“Damn right you are…”

The waist of Jaskier’s new pants is higher, accentuating his figure much better than the previous model. His tailor even approved of this change, but he probably thought that Jaskier would wear his doublet over them – which he has no intention to do. With the doublet unbuttoned and his chemise in plain sight, he looks even more scandalous than before.

(And yes, before the winter is over, the new look becomes a new trend in Oxenfurt.)

When spring comes, Geralt arrives to Oxenfurt, just as they agreed before parting. Jaskier runs into him on his escape from yet another angry wife. _Literally_ runs into him. (It’s almost like running into a solid wall. Ouch.)

“Geralt!” Jaskier grins, momentarily forgetting all about his pursuer. “You came!”

“Eskel,” Geralt growls.

“No. Jaskier, remember?” Jaskier smiles innocently, knowing damn well where this is going. “Sounds similar, but–”

“You fucked Eskel,” Geralt elaborates. “My _brother_ Eskel.”

“It was for research purposes,” Jaskier says, biting his lower lip.

“Was it?”

“Also, he’s hot,” Jaskier admits.

“And you’re a horrible slut.”

“Now that’s just–” Jaskier gulps when he sees an angry woman with a rolling pin in her hand approaching them. “Oh, fuck. Run, Geralt.”

“What–”

Jaskier grabs his hand and pulls.

“I said fucking _run_!”

During their second year, Jaskier spends even more time ogling Geralt’s ass. He simply cannot understand the tight fit of his pants. It’s almost surreal. He _tried_ to describe it to his tailor, but he simply couldn’t find the right words.

He has a new strategy now. He will try to draw pictures to show to his tailor.

Lucky for Jaskier, Geralt has a habit of bending down very, very often. It’s almost like he _wants_ the whole world to see his glorious butt.

“Writing a new song?” Geralt asks one evening in their camp, just as the sun begins to set.

Jaskier looks up from his notebook to see Geralt smiling at him.

“Uhm. Yes. About the… ghoul nest last week.”

“Ghoul nests are hardly worthy of a song,” Geralt smirks. “Want to, you know… try it out loud?”

“Are you asking me to _sing_ for you, my dear?” Jaskier grins, closing his notebook quickly. “I’m sorry, this one isn’t quite ready yet. But I can please you with another song from my extensive arsenal!”

“Anything but _The Fishmongers Daughter_ , then. Please.”

“Your wish is my command, my sweet Witcher!” Jaskier laughs, grabbing his lute, while Geralt bends down and lights a fire with an _Igni_.

Damn it. Now he’s gonna have to write a song about destroying a ghoul nest…

It’s not Jaskier’s fault that he manages to run into yet another Witcher, just as Geralt leaves for Kaer Morhen for the winter, right?

This one is slight and quick and agile. Jaskier almost can’t believe he’s a Wolf, too. He reminds him of Aiden way more than of Geralt or Eskel.

He’s also more impatient than even Lambert himself, growling as he’s trying to get into Jaskier’s pants.

“Fucking… fastenings,” he snorts. “Look like Lambert’s.”

“I might have stolen the idea from him,” Jaskier says innocently. “Have anything better in mind? I’m always open to new suggestions.”

“You can bet your sweet ass that I do,” the Witcher says, a knife appearing in his hand. “But in the meantime…”

“Oh, no,” Jaskier whines as he hears the fabric rip open. “Not fucking again!”

“Coën?!”

“Oh, hello, Geralt. Missed you too,” Jaskier says, smiling sweetly.

“Fucking Coën?!” Geralt groans.

“In my defense, dear, he said he wouldn’t go to Kaer Morhen for the winter, and if he met you, he wouldn’t tell you.”

“He didn’t. He met Lambert, though.”

“Fuck.”

“Could you…” Geralt takes a deep breath. “Could you just stop fucking my brothers, _please_?!”

“Just to make sure, how many more do you have?”

Geralt growls.

“Right, right,” Jaskier nods quickly. “No more fucking your brothers, I get it!”

“Good boy,” Geralt says and Jaskier has to bite back a moan that threatens to escape his lips at that.

By the gods, this year is going to be even worse than the last one.

But hey, the idea he stole from Coën made his pants even easier to get out of, so it was worth it.

It was so worth it.

To be fair, the Witcher Jaskier meets before _this_ winter isn’t Geralt’s brother. He is a Wolf, though, and Jaskier’s every instinct screams at him that this is a _bad_ idea, that Geralt is really going to kill him for this one… So he shuts his instincts up with a bottle of wine and decides to screw it, because if he’s going to die, at least he’s going to die a happy man.

Besides, there’s a hypothesis he really wants to test.

“Are you only doing this because you have a insuppressible need to fuck every single Witcher you meet?” the old Wolf laughs.

“Well… Kind of, yes,” Jaskier winks, kissing him. “But also because you’re _way_ hotter than I imagined.”

“Liar,” the Witcher says.

“My dear,” Jaskier murmurs. “I _never_ lie to my bed partners…”

This spring, it takes Geralt way too long to reach Oxenfurt – so long, in fact, that Jaskier gets tired of waiting and decides to go and search for him instead. Maybe he isn’t coming at all. Jaskier might have angered him way too much this time.

He’s hardly a mile away from the city when he sees a familiar horse on the road, and an even more familiar Witcher riding it. Jaskier beams and waves excitedly. Geralt frowns, jumps off Roach and lets her stand right there on the road as he takes a few steps towards Jaskier.

“Oh. Bollocks,” Jaskier mutters, turns around and makes a quick exit.

Five minutes later, Jaskier is running through a forest, his heart beating wildly. He yelps, dodging a low-hanging branch that threatens to knock him out.

“You can run, but you can’t hide!” Geralt growls behind him.

Honestly, Jaskier’s pretty sure that he cannot even run. He’s out of breath, his legs feel like they’re made of water and Geralt is yet to break a sweat.

He’s also pretty sure that Geralt doesn’t _really_ want to catch him, because he hasn’t even started to properly _run_ yet.

So Jaskier does what any other sane and reasonable person would do – he finds a convenient tree, gathers the last remnants of his strength to climb it and sits on a high branch that cannot be easily reached from the ground.

Wolves probably cannot climb trees. Can Wolf Witchers? Jaskier supposes he’s about to find out.

Geralt stops under the tree and glares up.

“ _Vesemir_!” he yells.

“You know, this is starting to feel really personal,” Jaskier says, considering going for an even higher branch. “You seem to forget my name during every single winter!”

“You fucked _Vesemir_! I specifically asked you not to fuck–”

“Your brothers! Vesemir is your _father_. There’s a difference. If you didn’t want me to fuck Vesemir, you should have been more specific.”

“It never occurred to me that you would even consider doing it!”

“Clearly, you don’t know me at all.”

“Is there a single Wolf Witcher you _haven’t_ fucked, Jaskier?!”

“Well, yeah. One,” Jaskier shrugs. “Look, I know it’s hard to understand, but that one time, I heard Lambert swear _by Vesemir’s flaccid cock_ , and I just needed to know if it, you know… was true.”

Geralt’s eyes go almost comically wide. In a heartbeat, he climbs up right next to Jaskier.

“ _You_!” the Witcher says. “You’re Lambert’s Oxenfurt fuck! The one who stole his pants!”

“I didn’t steal them, he gave them to me!”

Geralt takes a deep breath, clearly trying to stop himself from simply kicking the annoying bard down to the ground.

“Why?” he finally asks.

“Well, it’s quite a funny story, you see, he cut all the points that kept my pants on, so it was either borrowing his or walking home with my ass–”

“No, you idiot, I mean… Why _Witchers_?!”

“Oh,” Jaskier blinks. “Because I find you, all of you, incredibly hot. And then there’s the matter of your pants.”

“Our _pants_?”

“Did you see the atrocity that was considered fashionable before I met Lambert? Impossible to get into, impossible to get out of. Lambert’s pants changed my whole _life_! So I thought, well, there are other Witchers, Maybe I could find an improvement or two… And then I found _you_ , but I can’t really say _hey, Geralt, I think your pants are_ _just the best_ _, can I borrow them so my tailor can make a perfect copy_? And… Are you laughing? Seriously?”

“I’m sorry. It’s just… Oh, Jaskier,” Geralt chuckles. “If I give you what you want, will you please stop fucking the Witchers from my school? It really makes the winters quite uncomfortable.”

“You will… Give me what I want?” Jaskier gulps. “Oh, Geralt–”

“I won’t lend you my pants. But I am willing to go with you to your tailor and… I don’t know, let him do his job, I suppose.”

“Oh,” Jaskier blinks, pausing a little before grinning. “Perfect! Can we go right now? I mean, if you’ve finally decided you don’t want to kill me after all…”

“Jaskier.”

“And you see how the leather fits so closely to his lovely butt?”

“Just so you know, I’ve changed my mind,” Geralt huffs.

“Yes, I can see it, I just don’t know how it’s even _possible–_ ”

“I do want to kill you now,” Geralt announces.

“Hush,” Jaskier says. “And the waist! Isn’t it a work of art?”

“I’m almost sure I didn’t agree to being shown off like a whore in a brothel.”

“It is,” the tailor nods. “Very lovely indeed.”

“That’s enough. I’m out of here,” Geralt growls. “Meet me outside when your done.”

“You promised to give me what I want!” Jaskier protests.

“I’m sure that if your tailor is half as good as you claimed on our way here, he’s got enough to manage without me from now on,” Geralt says. “Because there’s no way you’ll ever make me come back here.”

He slams the door shut behind him and Jaskier sighs.

“You are, of course, aware that no matter what I do, your ass isn’t going to look like _that_ , yes?” the tailor asks, scribbling down some notes into his notebook.

“Of course,” Jaskier nods. “Such an excellent bottom…”

“Is he?” the tailor smirks.

“I think,” Jaskier shrugs. “I’m hoping to find out one day.”

The tailor rolls his eyes, writing down another note.

“Idiots, the two of you.”

“Excuse me?” says Jaskier, who’s still staring at the door behind which Geralt disappeared.

“I said how would next week sound to you?”

“Perfect!” Jaskier smiles. “And now to the fabrics…”

When they leave Oxenfurt a week later, Jaskier is wearing his brand new pants, he looks better than ever and he’s ready for their next adventure.

He’s also determined to keep his promise and not fuck any more Witchers… except for one.

And he _will_ get him if it’s the last thing he ever does...


	3. So, About The Pockets...

“I’m feeling kind of nervous about meeting Jaskier this spring,” Geralt says to the man who’s walking with him through the streets of Oxenfurt.

“Finally grew some balls and decided to ask the bard to rearrange your insides?” his companion smirks. “I swear, Geralt, if you don’t offer your ass to him, I will have to sacrifice mine.”

“Lambert!” Geralt groans.

“What? Poor boy apparently didn’t fuck a Witcher last year.”

“Because I asked him not to. Well, not to fuck any Wolves, at least.”

“Jealous prick.”

“The worst thing is, he really didn’t! Or so it seems,” Geralt sighs.

“I can see the problem. He’s a fucking idiot.”

Geralt grunts.

“And what are _you_ doing here, anyway? Sticking around just to annoy the shit out of me?”

“Meeting a friend,” Lambert smiles.

“A friend? You?” Geralt blinks, pausing. “ _Another_?!”

“You make it sound like some sort of a miracle. I assure you, I’m fully capable of making _friends_.”

“Hm,” Geralt nods. “And this friend, he’s a… what? Another Witcher?”

“He’s a… bard.”

“A _bard_.”

“Don’t say it like that,” Lambert frowns.

“Like what?”

“Like you don’t believe a single word.”

“I don’t believe a single word,” Geralt smirks. “So what’s his name?”

“Aid… _Fuck_ ,” Lambert grunts.

“So, Aiden. Now tell me, Lambert, this wouldn’t happen to be the Aiden I helped you avenge last autumn, would it?”

“No. It’s a completely different Aiden.”

“Am I really supposed to believe that you found _two_ friends, both named Aiden, and _both_ willing to put up with your bullshit?”

“In my defense,” Lambert says, grumpily kicking a nearby stone, “I really thought he _was_ dead when I asked you for help. Met him like… a week after you and I parted ways afterwards. Thought I finally managed to turn my brain into mush with all the drinking, but it turned out that Cats really do have nine lives. He lost an eye and tends to mess up his signs a lot, but nobody’s perfect, eh? And hey, turns out that Igni works against pretty much everything.”

“And you didn’t tell me for the whole winter because…”

“Because you’d probably kick me down from the balcony?”

“Damn right I would,” Geralt growls. “So where’s this Aiden of yours?”

“Don’t know. Somewhere here in the city.”

Geralt stops dead in his tracks, gaping at Lambert.

“Here? In _Oxenfurt_?!” he asks. “With _Jaskier_?!”

“Well, he needed a safe place to spend the winter, and you know Vesemir isn’t a fan of Cats,” Lambert shrugs. “Come on, it’s a big city. I’m sure they haven’t even met each other. The city’s still standing, after all.”

“You don’t understand. _Jaskier–_ ”

Geralt doesn’t even get to finish the sentence when he sees a young man leap from the window of a nearby building and land with a perfect roll that only comes with years and years of practice.

“Melitele’s tits,” he mutters under his breath while making sure his pants are properly fastened. “Nobody’s ever told you it’s impolite not to let a man finish?!”

“Hey, Geralt,” Lambert snorts. “Found your bard.”

Jaskier, hearing his words, turns his head and beams at the Witchers.

“Geralt! Lambert! So nice to see you! Would one of you mind Yrdening the fucking door for me?”

“I swear to Melitele, Jaskier, one day I am going to let you suffer the consequences of your actions,” Geralt smirks, stepping closer to the door and using the sign on them. “How was your winter?”

“Very amusing,” Jaskier smiles just as the doorknob rattles uselessly. “How about yours?”

“Drafty,” Lambert says. “Hey, you didn’t happen to see Aiden, did you?”

“Aiden?” Jaskier repeats, his eyes darting over to the door of a tavern on the other side of the road. “Well, that’s quite a funny story, actually…”

There is a loud crash from within the tavern, followed by a roared: “Cheating Witcher scum!”

The door open and a lean blond man with an eye patch over his right eye runs out, looking around frantically.

“Jaskier!” he yells when he spots the bard. “We need to go. _Now_!”

“Did you try to Axii your way out of cheating again, kitty?” Lambert smirks, takes a few steps forward and casts an Yrden on the door.

“ _Lambert_!” Aiden yells and throws his arms around Lambert’s neck. “You’re here, puppy!”

“So what _did_ you cast?” Lambert smirks, hugging him tightly.

“Aard. Not _that_ bad.”

“It’s better than the Yrden last week,” Jaskier comments. “The guy really wasn’t happy about having to spend the night in his seat. And there was, of course, the tiny incident with Valdo Marx and Igni two days before _that…_ ”

“ _I’m sure they haven’t even met each other. The city’s still standing, after all_. Well, what a fucking miracle,” Geralt snorts, turning to Lambert, only to realize that he is currently kissing Aiden passionately. “Oh, fuck. Jaskier?”

“Yes, dear?” Jaskier smiles.

“They’re not just friends, are they?”

“What gave you the clue?” the bard chuckles.

The shutters on a window of a house Jaskier was running away from crash open and an angry man starts to climb out, even though he can barely fit through.

“Uhm, I don’t want to be the bearer of bad news…” Geralt starts, but then Jaskier grabs his hand and he promptly shuts up.

“Yes,” the bard nods. “We’d better fucking run.”

Jaskier puffs out his chest and frowns at the fat man in front of him – the man who, as Geralt realizes, was the one climbing out of the window of the house where Geralt met Jaskier about an hour ago, right before their hurried escape to Jaskier’s rooms in the university buildings.

“Are you _suggesting_ , my dear sir,” Jaskier says in his best _offended noble_ voice, “that I, a respectable professor at this university, have, as you said yourself, canoodled with your wife?”

“I saw you. With my own eyes!” the man growls.

“Impossible. I spent my afternoon here, with my dear friend Geralt of Rivia. Is that true, Geralt?”

“Hm,” Geralt nods solemnly, trying not to spit out his wine.

“But this… friend of yours was there, too!” the man tries.

Jaskier gasps for breath and places a hand on his chest dramatically.

“Did you…” he whispers. “Did you just dispute the words of Geralt of Rivia, the mighty _White Wolf_ himself? My dear sir, this man is a Witcher! The legendary savior! Slayer of bruxas…”

“Bruxae,” Geralt murmurs.

“… strigas…”

“Didn’t actually kill the striga.”

“… ghouls…”

“There’s really nothing exciting about those.”

“… and… and nekkers…”

“Every respectable Witcher wants to be known as a slayer of fucking nekkers.”

“And drowners!” Jaskier yells after the man who’s already turned on his heel and left.

“I see you’re running our of monsters again,” Geralt chuckles when Jaskier slams the door shut.

“Oh, shut up,” Jaskier mutters, sits into his armchair and grabs his goblet of wine. “Did I get rid of him or not?”

“You annoyed him into leaving, yes,” Geralt nods. “That, or he realized that Witchers tend to have two very big and sharp swords.”

“And I have _three_ Witchers,” Jaskier smiles just as they both hear Lambert’s high-pitched scream from the next room.

“Sweet Melitele. How much longer is it going to take them?”

“Come on, Geralt. They didn’t see each other for the whole winter.”

“I didn’t see you for the whole winter, and you don’t hear me moaning your name like a cheap whore.”

“Yes, and isn’t that a shame?”

Geralt nearly chokes on his wine.

“What?” he wheezes.

“Nothing, dear,” Jaskier says quickly and gets back to his feet to refill their goblets.

“Hm…” Geralt hums, cocking his head. “Are those new pants?”

“They are. Thank you for noticing.”

“What happened to the tighter ones?”

“An accident,” Jaskier sighs. “I keep saying it, yours are only held together by some sort of dark magic!”

“They aren’t.”

“Fine, is it Quen, then? Are you constantly Quenning your fucking pants?”

“I am definitely not Quenning my pants, no.”

“Then explain how it’s possible that your mighty ass doesn’t rip them in half!”

“I don’t know. I suppose you will have to take a look at them yourself.”

“Geralt, I’ve been looking at your pants ten times a day ever since I met you, I don’t think one more look will change… What are you doing?”

Geralt downs the rest of his wine and stands up.

“I was thinking about a… closer look,” he murmurs. “I mean… for research purposes, of course.”

“Geralt of Rivia,” Jaskier says, his eyes going wide. “Are you seriously suggesting… what I think you’re suggesting?”

“That there is one Wolf Witcher you haven’t fucked yet, yes.” For someone who’s just a little taller than Jaskier, Geralt is sure good at towering above the bard. “So if you wanted…”

“For research purposes, yes?” Jaskier asks as he wraps his arms around Geralt’s waist. “I should warn you, though. I’m afraid it’s gonna have to be a very thorough research. Probably gonna take at least a year.”

Geralt smirks and brings their lips so close together that they almost – but only almost – touch.

“Works for me,” he murmurs right before Jaskier kisses him.

“Did you know Cat Witchers have _pockets_ on their pants?” Jaskier asks much later, when they’re lying side by side in his bed, naked and satisfied.

“Mhm,” Geralt hums because he was just about to fall asleep. “That’s nice.”

“I mean, not for me, they would absolutely ruin my silhouette, obviously,” Jaskier continues. “But for you, they might be quite handy, right?”

“Did you… Did you have to _research_ with Aiden to find out?”

“Well, yes. You see, winter nights tend to get boring,” Jaskier grins. “But fret not, dear heart, you won’t have to spend the rest of your life protecting me from your angry brother. They have quite an open relationship.”

“Bold of you to assume that I _would_ protect you,” Geralt sighs, burying his face in Jaskier’s chest.

“I know you will always protect me, dear,” Jaskier smiles and presses a kiss in Geralt’s hair. “So, about the pockets...”

“Tomorrow. I want to _sleep_.”

“But you promised I could take a look at your pants.”

“Mhm, I didn’t specify _when_ , though. So shut up and let me sleep.”

“ _Geralt_...” Jaskier whines.

“Jaskier,” Geralt chuckles.

“Ugh, fine. But I like you a lot less now, I hope you’re aware of that.”

“I’ll make it up to you. In the morning. I might even be willing to go with you to that tailor of yours.”

“Really?”

“Really. But first I have to ask Aiden about the… pockets thing…”

Geralt falls asleep, snoring slightly, even though he’s assured Jaskier a million times that Witchers absolutely do _not_ snore.

“Knew you were gonna like that idea,” Jaskier smiles and closes his eyes. “Good night, my dear Wolf.”

“Hmmm…”

The next morning, Jaskier grins at the tiny tailor who’s studying Geralt’s pants with interest while the Witcher just stands there with his ass barely covered by his shirt.

“Truly an _excellent_ bottom.”

“I can see that,” the man grins back.

“You are so,” Geralt snarls, “ _so_ paying for this, bard.”

“Oh, my dear,” Jaskier laughs. “With _pleasure_.”


End file.
